The ABC's of Hilson
by iluvdimples314
Summary: A series of 26 one-shots/drabbles from Angsty to Zany. Established Hilson. My first attempt at House, M.D. Plenty of humor and generous helpings of romance with some goofy-ness on the side. Sprinkle of hurt/comfort, but hold the OOC. Reviews welcomed.
1. Question

**Hello out there! I'm completely new to the wide world of House fanfiction, so allow me to introduce myself. I usually go by JD, I thrive on reviews, and I proudly ship slash. So here's the deal. This is the first of 26 one-shots that I have decided to link into one enormous story. Each chapter is centered around an object or idea that starts with a different letter of the alphabet. And I'm going in keyboard order: Q,W,E,R,T,Y, and so on. So bear with me, read, review, alert... whatever. I just want these ideas to leave me alone. **

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Smiling mischievously, Dr. Gregory House reached over to set his near-empty beer bottle on the coffee table. He yanked the charcoal grey blanket off his abdomen and removed his legs from Wilson's lap, swinging them over the side of the couch so his toes greeted the hardwood floor.

"Where are you going?" James inquired, bushy brown eyebrows slightly raised.

House remained silent and gently eased himself off the couch, crawling closer to his companion. With slight difficulty, he positioned himself on one knee and clasped his hands on Wilson's thigh. House looked up with bulbous cerulean eyes and grinned.

Eyes widening, James mirrored the smile and leaned forward. "House, I-"

Greg just held his index finger to his companion's lips to shush him. He moved his hand up to push a few lingering locks of chestnut hair from Wilson's forehead. "Shush. It's my turn."

Nodding obediently, James sealed his lips and tried his best to hold back the tears filling his gentle chocolate eyes.

"Listen, I've been feeling differently lately," House purred, his voice dripping with pseudo-sincerity. "Like there's an empty spot inside of me, like I'm never satisfied. And only you have the ability to fill that space."

Wilson grasped the older doctor's weathered hands in his own and pursed his lips as a single glittering tear slid down his cheek. "Yeah," he whispered, for lack of something more profound to say.

House responded, squeezing Wilson's fingers, and he continued. "Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say…" He looked down at the floor before pulling his hands away, reaching down as if to extract something from his pocket.

In the eyes of James, the scene slipped by in slow motion. He watched in adoration as Greg's eyes crept back up to meet his own. He reached out to run a thumb over the older man's cheekbone and savored the feeling of brittle stubble against his fingertips. And he listened intently as House cleared his throat before opening his mouth.

"I'm starving. What's for dinner?"

As the warm, fuzzy feeling in Wilson's stomach rapidly evaporated, he felt his muscles clench. His fingernails bit viciously into the palm of his left hand as he swung a fist toward House's face.

Luckily, the older doctor was prepared for this. He had already ducked his head, and Wilson's arm flew harmlessly through the air. House peeked up cautiously at the younger man. "I'm not really in the mood for a knuckle sandwich, thanks."

An uncharacteristic growl sounded in Wilson's gullet. Part of him wanted to strangle House with an electrical cord, tear his apartment apart, and then stomp dramatically out the door. But along with having to deal with the ramifications of second-degree murder, this plan would give him no long-term satisfaction.

A fearless House hoisted himself off the floor with the coffee table's assistance. He collapsed into the sofa cushions with a theatrical sigh. "So, seriously. What's cookin', good lookin'?" he jested.

James crossed his arms and leaned back, a convincing pout evident on his face.

"Ah, the silent treatment. Very mature." House snatched his cane from its resting place against the wall and started towards the kitchen. "I suppose we'll be feasting on roast beef sandwiches this evening." He glanced back over his shoulder with an eyebrow raised. "You want one, Mr. Pouty Panties?"

Wilson's eyes remained glued to the TV screen. His expression remained blank, but his mind was racing.

"Fine. Starve." House retorted. James wordlessly watched him disappear into the kitchen.

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**Praise, criticism, flames... I welcome any and all feedback. So go ahead, hit me with your best shot. **

**~JD**


	2. Watering Can

**Allow me to say that this story is not going to develop into a giant prank-fest between House and Wilson. I have some several chapters in mind that are far less mischievous, but these first two happen to fall into the same type of genre. Anyway, don't let me ruin anything for you. **

**And thank you to paulac45 for pointing out my error. This is an AU fic, and I decided to give the boys a house and a garden. **

**So without further ado...**

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Whistling under his breath, Wilson pulled on his bright green gardening gloves and dropped to his knees. He picked up a trowel and removed a sizeable chunk of earth from the flower bed.

"A real man wouldn't wear gloves, you know," House grumbled. He tossed his cane haphazardly to the side and lowered himself to the ground a couple feet behind Wilson. "Innuendo intended."

James wiped the sweat from his brow. "Very clever." With a reluctant smile dancing across his features, Wilson extracted a petunia from its plastic carton. "You have any idea where the watering can is?"

From his position on the lawn, House easily spotted the forest green watering can perched behind a peony bush. "Not a clue," he reported convincingly.

Wilson got to his feet and shielded his eyes from the sun. At his altered perspective, he could see the curved spout peeking between the broad leaves with no trouble. "Do you actually have any control of what comes out of your mouth, or do the lies think of themselves?" James placed his petunia-free hand on his hip.

With an impish grin, House thoughtfully scratched his chin. "I can control myself. The lies just come naturally. It's a gift, I suppose." He raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Wilson tramped over to the bush and grabbed the watering can, annoyed to find it empty. "If you're going to pester me, you may as well make yourself helpful," he grumbled. "Fill this up." Wilson hesitated, wagging a threatening finger at House. "And no funny business with the hose."

House opened his mouth to speak, but Wilson cut him off.

"No innuendo intended." Wilson masked his chuckle with a cough and tossed the seemingly empty can over.

What happened next was completely unexpected by both men. A fuming chipmunk sprang from the depths of the watering can and latched onto House's tee-shirt.

With a humiliating squeal, House batted at the panicked rodent. Those tiny claws were latched firmly into the fabric of his shirt, and the chipmunk couldn't have freed itself if it wanted to. House grunted in defeat as he yanked his shirt over his head and launched it to a distant patch of the yard. He took several deep breaths before glancing up at Wilson.

The formerly somber oncologist was doubled over, clutching his abdomen as his body shook with laughter. He met House's eyes and tried to gather his emotions. "That… was so… great," he choked out between bouts of childish giggles.

House ran a hand over his face and plucked his cane from the grass. He eyed his bright red concert tee, but quickly decided against retrieving it. "You knew it was in there, didn't you?" he queried accusingly as he got to his feet.

Wilson held up his hands with mocking surprise plastered across his smug façade. "I had no idea, House. It was just an added bonus, really."

His mischievous tone suggested dishonesty, but his truthful brown eyes spoke louder. House nonchalantly spun his cane between his fingers and examined the smears of dirt on Wilson's pants. "Let's just see how long the laughter lasts, Wilson. You're the one who has to do the laundry." He turned on his heel and started towards the back door, only pausing to throw a couple of words over his shoulder:

"Innuendo intended."

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**I recently realized that the Review button isn't green anymore. So humor me and click on that lovely little speech bubble. There's no way I'm going to make it through 26 chapters without feedback! **

**~JD**


	3. Eggs

**Okey-dokey. Chapter Three of Twenty-Six.**

**I hope that no one minds the reoccurring shirtless-ness. **

**Didn't think so. **

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A thundering clatter awoke House from his restless slumber. He grumbled and stretched a leg over to the other side of the bed, only to find it vacant. Which meant that Wilson was already up, and presumably knocking something over. "I sure hope that wasn't my guitar!" he bellowed threateningly.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and Wilson's angular face appeared in the doorway. "Calm down, House. It was a frying pan." He stepped through the threshold to reveal the crimson apron he was sporting. It read _Kiss the Cook _in thick white lettering scrawled across his chest.

With an exasperated scowl, House propped himself up on his pillows. "Remind me why I live here again?" he queried, snatching the Vicodin bottle from his nightstand.

Wilson grinned and turned on his heel, revealing the back of his bare torso. "Mostly because I feed you, if I'm not mistaken," he called over his shoulder, then returned to the kitchen.

House rolled his eyes and swallowed three Vicodin capsules. Yesterday had been a particularly taxing sequence of differentials. Even though he was exhausted when he returned home, the relentless pain in his leg had prevented restful sleep. House had lain stoically in bed, massaging his thigh, moaning pitifully into his pillow when the agony overcame him; there were some nights when even narcotics couldn't staunch the pain, and that was usually when he nudged Wilson awake.

But House knew that his partner wasn't having the best week, either. Even without the energy or motivation to snoop through his patient files, House could tell that cancer had been winning the battle lately. It was the way Wilson's physical appearance had steadily deteriorated over the past five days, until the once-pristine oncologist had become a dilapidated shell of his former self.

Needless to say, both the oncologist and the diagnostician were glad that their day off had finally rolled around.

House lifted his legs over the side of the bed and grabbed his cane, trying to ignore the persistent whistling leaking from the kitchen. Apparently, Wilson had benefited from a night of rest. And a part of House was glad that he hadn't woken Wilson last night.

Then again, the grin on House's face may have been caused by something else. A _different _part of House was glad to see Wilson sporting only a pair of boxers and a flimsy cotton apron.

Either way, House was smiling ever-so-slightly when he shifted his weight from the mattress to the floor. He had a buoyancy in his limping gait as he neared the threshold, and he started humming loud enough so that the quickly approaching footsteps were inaudible.

Before either man knew what was happening, House and Wilson collided. The oncoming force of Wilson's surprisingly sturdy frame knocked House over onto his rear, which did nothing to soothe the pain in his thigh. Wilson went down right on top of him, along with the wooden tray that he was carrying. Plates rattled, grunts sounded, and scrambled eggs rained down upon the two doctors.

House clenched his jaw and propped himself up on his elbows. "You dumbass," he accused.

Wilson climbed off of House's chest and set the tray on the floor beside him. "How was I supposed to know you were there? My x-ray vision is on the fritz," he retorted sarcastically.

Ignoring his question, House sat up and wrapped his fingers around his thigh. "I hope you realize that whatever quasi-romantic gesture you attempted has miserably failed." He brushed a pile of scrambled eggs off his shoulder.

Wilson's eyebrows furrowed together, and he got to his feet. "House, I know you didn't sleep last night. And I'm sorry if my efforts to make your life just a _little bit _easier have pissed you off." He untied his apron and yanked it off theatrically, then threw it to the floor at House's feet.

House bit his tongue and ran a hand over his face. He would normally divert his eyes and wait for Wilson to storm off, mumbling a sarcastic remark just loud enough to hear from the hallway.

But the pale sunlight streaming through the single window of their bedroom was hitting Wilson in exactly the right way. It dipped and danced across his abdomen, painting sunbeams on his chest. Every feature of his face was highlighted or accented, and his chestnut-brown hair glistened like fine copper wire.

The illuminated doctor placed a hand on his hip and glared down at House. "What?"

House groped for his cane, then wrapped his fingers around it, never tearing his eyes away from Wilson. He got to his feet and slowly approached the other man. With a quivering index finger, he pushed a strand of hair from Wilson's forehead. "Thank you."

Neither man was sure what House was grateful for. Perhaps it was the attempt to bring him breakfast in bed after a rough night. Perhaps it was his relationship with the kind-hearted, stunningly beautiful man who stood before him.

Or maybe the Vicodin had just kicked in.

Regardless of the reason, House leaned forward and captured Wilson's lips in a tender kiss. Normally, the two men shoved their mouths together with the desperate gnashing of teeth and tongues, gasping frantically for oxygen. But House couldn't bring himself to ruin the serenity of this moment.

Not that Wilson minded. He smiled against House's mouth and pulled the older doctor closer. The hair at the nape of Wilson's neck stood on end as House slipped his muscular arms around his bare waist.

When they reluctantly parted, House closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Wilson's. For once in his life, he didn't consider the necessity to fill the empty air with words. But James felt differently. He cleared his throat and smirked flippantly.

"What were you saying about failed romantic gestures?"

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**You know what to do. **

**~JD**


	4. Raindrops on Roses

**Yes, this plotline is clichéd. And no, that didn't make it any less fun to write. More so, as a matter of fact. I just couldn't resist. And really, what series of Hilson one-shots would be complete without a dash of...**

**Well, I suppose you'll have to read on and decide for yourself.**

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"Don't be silly, House. Brontophobia is for little kids and lapdogs." But Wilson's words defied him as a thundering boom rattled the windowpanes, and he wrapped the sheets tighter around his quivering frame.

House sighed and propped his head up on his elbow. "Then either you've grown incredibly fast, or that lump of scar tissue is actually the stub of an amputated tail." He absentmindedly placed a hand on the small of Wilson's back.

"You know _precisely _how that got there," Wilson whispered accusingly. "And for the record, pulling a chair out from under someone is both unfair and disproportionate payback for a prank call."

Chuckling quietly, House pressed an over-exaggerated kiss to his index finger and placed it on the aforementioned bump. "All better?"

Under the sarcasm, Wilson could've sworn he detected a hint of remorse. Another bang of thunder wiped the affectionate smile off his face, and he felt a muscular arm wrap around his waist. "I'm fine, House," he whispered.

With a quiet sigh, House pulled Wilson's body closer to his own. He had never been the touchy-feely type, but his partner's vulnerability triggered a nurturing impulse that he had never been able to overcome. House used his shoulder to gingerly guide Wilson's head into the crook of his neck. "I don't mind." House's version of an affectionate statement.

Wilson's hand crept over the older man's chest, and he grasped House's shoulder with twitching fingers. "It's totally irrational. Sound can't do me any harm. And it's not like I grew up in Seattle. Or the Amazon rainforest." The tone of his voice was unsteady and hushed, as if he wasn't sure whether he was reassuring House or himself.

House nodded wordlessly. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room, and a deafening roar followed suite. He could feel the moisture pooling against his neck, but he couldn't differentiate between perspiration and tears. Either way, he could tell that, rational or not, Wilson's fear was getting the best of him.

"How much do you think it costs to sound-proof a bedroom?" he whispered, formulating a distraction.

Wilson chuckled dryly and dug his fingers deeper into House's shoulder. "More than you'd think. I had someone give me a quote once. You and that damn guitar." But both men knew that Wilson was joking. House could play his electric guitar all day long, and Wilson wouldn't mind. Because it was House.

House echoed the chuckle and ran a hand through Wilson's hair, wincing right along with the other man as lightning illuminated the walls once again. The thunder waited a moment before sounding, so at least the storm was moving away.

With an involuntary sob, Wilson buried his face in House's chest. His shaking body remained in this position long after the thunder quieted.

House's heart ached with empathy, and he softly cleared his throat and brought his lips to Wilson's ear.

"Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens," he sang, fingering Wilson's right ear.

Wilson smiled through his tears and glanced up at House.

"Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens." He reached up to clutch Wilson's hand in his own, squeezing each individual finger.

The pulsing rain eased into a comforting patter on the shingles, and Wilson wiped his eyes with his free hand. "Brown paper packages, tied up with strings." His hand moved down to the drawstring of House's pajama bottoms.

The older doctor grinned and caught Wilson's eyes, running a finger down the bridge of his nose. "These are a few of my favorite things."

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**Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed this little trip down amnesia lane as much as I did. (Amnesia lane... what's that from? I can't remember.)**

**Anywho, please review. Let's break 20 reviews on this chapter!**

**Pwetty pwease? (Not to be desperate, of course.)**

**~JD**


	5. Tattoo

**Here it is! Chapter 5. And it's the longest one yet, I might add.**

**Just wanted to send out a huge thank-you to everyone who's reading, reviewing, alerting, and favoriting. None of this would be possible without y'all. So please, keep it up.**

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Wilson collapsed into the rolling chair and sent it flying across the tile floor. His gleeful squeal was cut short by the dull thud of the chair against the nearest counter, and then the dull thud of the counter against Wilson's head.

"You sure you wanna do this, man?" A curvy red-headed girl with tattoos plastering her body walked over to Wilson and placed a spidery hand on her hip. "You might regret this in the morning."

With a drunken chuckle, Wilson got to his feet and placed a mocking hand on his own hip. "I think that I'm capable of choosing my choices, lady," he slurred. His face slackened for a moment, and he gripped the counter to steady himself.

The redhead briefly raised an eyebrow before deflating. "Whatever you say." She guided him back into the chair and rolled him over to her station. "So where do you want this thing?" With a seductive half-smile, she examined his physique from head to toe- quite literally, because he was missing his left shoe.

Wilson scratched his chin thoughtfully. He looked up at the girl, then at the floor, then back to the girl. There was no reason he shouldn't have a little fun. "I was thinking… on my ass," he reported with a wink.

Natalie gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth, feigning surprise. In all honesty, she had been expecting this. Nine out of ten intoxicated party boys who stumbled into this parlor couldn't sit down for a week afterwards. And the other one out of ten couldn't pleasure themselves, either.

"Come with me," she beckoned, curling a finger. She slipped her arm into the crook of Wilson's elbow and led him toward a glorified gurney in the back of the parlor. With a honey-coated giggle, she pulled the glossy silk curtain across its rod. "You ready?"

Unabashedly, Wilson unbuttoned his khakis and stepped out of them carefully, grasping Natalie's arm to steady himself. In only a pale yellow button-down shirt and a pair of boxer briefs, he spread himself across the gurney with all the grace of a chimpanzee. "Let's do this."

Natalie shrugged and pulled on her latex gloves. "Just show me my canvas, cutie." Raising an expectant eyebrow, she grabbed a few cotton balls and doused them with rubbing alcohol.

Wilson turned his back and tugged his shorts down to his thighs. "I must be really drunk," he admitted bluntly, then rolled over onto his stomach.

Natalie couldn't help but admire the view. His posterior was magnificently shaped, featuring a number of undeniably adorable freckles. With an impish grin, she eyed Wilson in the same manner that a seven-year-old girl peeks at her gifts before Christmas. "Which, um…side?"

"Left," Wilson answered automatically, remembering a snippet of conversation with House.

_

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_

"That's my side of the bed, you know," House grumbled, pushing their bedroom door open with his cane.

_Wilson chuckled sleepily and burrowed deeper into the covers. "It's warm," he countered. "You sacrifice your side when you get up so early."_

_"It's eleven, Wilson." House's harsh tone was laced with adoration. With ruffled hair and a drowsy smile, Wilson was looking pretty damn adorable. _

_The younger man ignored House's comment and changed the subject. "Why do you like this side so much, anyways?" he queried, never opening his eyes._

_House limped over to the bed and traced Wilson's jaw line with an uncharacteristically gentle finger. "It's not the bed."_

_"What is it then?" Wilson blinked in confusion._

_"This side of you isn't half as stunning as your left," House retorted, returning to the hallway._

_Wilson rolled over to his rightful side of the bed and smiled into his icy pillow._

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"So what kind of tattoo were you thinking about?"

Natalie's voice awakened Wilson from his flashback. Suddenly aware of his blatant exposure, he cleared his throat and tried to control the inevitable school-boy blush. "I just want some script," he reported, his tone void of its former bravado. "No big deal."

Natalie sanatized the area and tugged open a set of needles, carefully inserting them into her oscillator. "Just say the word." An ominous buzz pierced Wilson's silent contemplation.

The romantic part of him- which was most of him, actually- wanted to say "_Gregory_". A very Austen-esque name, he had always thought. But he couldn't remember the last time he had called House anything other than, well, House. Nor could Wilson recall House ever calling him by his first name, except when he was being patronizing. If he was going to have a word permanently marked in his flesh, he was going to be practical. The last-name thing was just one of the quirks of their relationship, he supposed.

"I just want you to write _House. _With a capital _H_, and nothing too girly."

Natalie looked down at him skeptically, wondering if this was the alcohol talking. "That's it? Just _House?_" She had tattooed some pretty wacky things in her time, but the simplicity of this particular request was throwing her for a loop.

"Yup. Just _House._" Wilson smiled in spite of himself. _"_House is enough for me."

Shrugging in defeat, Natalie dipped the needles into black ink and approached the gurney. "Okay, then." She grabbed a tissue and drew her first line in his flesh, carefully observing his reaction. Some of her pansy-assed clients had flipped out after the first prickle more than once, and Natalie didn't want to screw this up.

Fortunately, Wilson's threshold for pain was surprisingly high. He barely flinched as the needles plunged rapidly in and out of his skin.

Natalie paused for a moment and glanced over at his face. "Might be a little late, but I'm Natalie," she giggled. Something told her that she wasn't going to get anywhere with this man, but she may as well have fun.

"I'm... Wilson."

"Just Wilson?"

James grinned widely. "Yup. Just Wilson."

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**Cyberbrownies for reviews. Bonus points to anyone who goes out to get their own House tattoo. Super bonus points for Wilson tattoos. **

**And, by the way, I couldn't fit it into the chapter, but Wilson wasn't driving drunk. I decided to build a tattoo parlor right next to the local bar. So no worries. Our Boy Wonder Oncologist remains equally as wonderful. **

**Oh yeah, and all of my tattooing knowledge comes from Wikipedia. Teeheehee.**

**Enough of my babble. Please review.**

**~JD**


	6. Yellow

**Here we are! Chapter 6, Letter Y. Thirteen-hundred words, thank you very much. And I hope that it isn't terribly OOC, but if you believe it to be, I don't truly mind. It was beyond fun to write.**

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Gregory House was privileged with quite a few secrets. Secrets about a particularly compassionate, opinionated, good-looking oncologist that he spent the majority of his time thinking about. Secrets that no one else knew, as a matter of fact.

For instance, he knew the precise reason why Wilson winced every time he sat down. And he smiled each time it happened, then plastered on a smirk to mask his affection. Just because Wilson been thoroughly plastered when he permanently marked his flesh with his lover's name didn't make House any less tickled.

He had also memorized every one of Wilson's thoughtless vocalizations ("Ride me harder, you limping twerp!"), his preferred position (face-to-face, House on top, sucking on his collarbone), and his favorite locations around the house (the coffee table bore no coasters or photo albums for this one particular reason).

But, surprisingly, he had never acted on one particularly useful nugget of knowledge: without scientifically-engineered assistance, Wilson was blind as a bat. If it weren't for muscle memory and the piercing beep of his alarm clock, House doubted that Wilson would be capable of hitting the snooze button. He even had trouble differentiating between colors.

That is, House hadn't acted on it until now.

He was humming a rousing rendition of "Ode to Joy" as he quickly unscrewed Wilson's contact case. House tossed the tiny bottle of food coloring into the air before popping the top off with the pad of his thumb.

In all honesty, House wasn't exactly sure why he was doing this. He was reminded of a quote from a book he scanned in Pediatrics once, while trying to avoid clinic duty: "You need a reason to frown, but you never need a reason to smile."

Motives for affection were a necessity for House, but he had never required rhyme or reason when practical jokes were involved.

The tiny plastic wells were nearly overflowing with saline and yellow dye when House carefully twisted the caps back on. He made sure to obliterate all evidence, going as far as slipping the empty plastic vial into his pocket in lieu of the bathroom wastebasket.

Now, it was all a matter of time.

He tiptoed out of the bathroom and crawled cautiously into bed. There was no chance he was going to depart to the kitchen and miss his opportunity to witness Wilson's reaction. House drummed rhythmically on his abdomen and closed his eyes.

Moments later, Wilson's alarm sounded its persistent buzz. A drooping arm slipped out from under the sheets and groped for the snooze button, silencing the alarm mid-beep. Wilson rubbed his eyes with his fists and rolled over. His coppery hair stood erect in several different directions. He slid his arm blindly across the mattress until he located House's waist. "'Morning," he greeted, his voice thick with sleep.

House wrapped an arm around the younger man and tucked Wilson's head into the crook of his neck. "'Morning to you, too," he chuckled. House had originally possessed every intention to harass Wilson until he retreated into the bathroom; patience had never been his _forte. _But there was something about that man, just after he awoke, but before he opened his eyes, that House couldn't resist. Every word, every touch, was so intimate, so unguarded. And House would never admit how much he loved it.

"Don't wanna go to work," Wilson moaned good-heartedly. In all truth, he enjoyed his job in practice, just not in theory. Mostly because it entailed leaving this house, and this bed, and this man.

"Then rub at your nose and cough a bit. Instant sick day." House gave Wilson's back an encouraging smack.

Wilson shook his head and absent-mindedly stroked House's stubble, grinning as the whiskers tickled his fingertips. "Too many patients who need me," he reasoned. "Boy Wonder to the rescue." And with that, he opened his eyes and removed himself from House, then scampered off into the bathroom.

_Reverse psychology_, House thought. _Works every time. _He diligently studied the pinstriped comforter and cupped a preparatory hand around his ear.

In the bathroom, Wilson expertly inserted his left contact lens into his eye. "Holy shit," he swore under his breath, blinking rapidly. A brief sensation stung his eye, and the resulting tears dripped down the left side of his face as his body attempted to expel the contaminant. After several seconds, Wilson plucked a washcloth from the vanity and wiped the moisture off his face.

"-the hell was that?" he muttered. Wilson grabbed a bar of soap and turned the faucet on, being sure to thoroughly scour his hands before his next attempt. To be safe, he dried his hands with a tissue. With his vision blurrier than ever, he removed the other lens and placed it onto his right eye with utmost caution, but to no avail. The stinging returned two-fold.

After several more tissues, tears, and curse words, Wilson peered into the mirror to inspect the damage.

His jaw dropped, and he clapped his left hand over his heart.

Wilson's eyes were brightly, dreadfully, undeniably yellow. And he knew that could only mean one thing.

Liver failure. He was dying.

When Wilson burst back into the bedroom, House's eyes widened. His partner did not look amused, or annoyed, or even vengeful. He looked desolate. House didn't even have time to speak before Wilson threw himself back onto the bed.

"I'm dying," Wilson blubbered. He peered up at House with "jaundiced", albeit still-glimmering eyes, and bit his lip. Within moments, by default, he had gathered House's arms around himself, burying his face in the older man's chest.

House rolled his eyes and scoffed, placing a tender hand on the back of Wilson's neck nonetheless. "You moron. It was a joke."

With one last shudder, Wilson's sobbing ceased mid-whimper. He slowly raised his head to meet House's gaze. "What… did you just say?"

"I put food coloring in your saline. Your liver is fine. So cut it out."

The tearful, pathetic look evaporated from Wilson's façade. "You. Think. That's. Funny?" He spat out each word like a watermelon seed, and they pelted House's heart with painful accuracy.

The older doctor remained stationary and wordless for several moments. This wasn't the reaction he had been going for. And he had a feeling that there was not going to be any make-up sex involved.

Wilson let his head fall back to House's neck. He let the diagnostician stew in his own guilt for countless minutes of silence. But he couldn't bring himself to move away. "I thought I was going to die, House. I thought... that was the beginning of the end." Wilson wiped his face with the back of his hand. "Do you have any idea…" His voice trailed off before he could finish his inquiry. Of course House knew what that felt like.

With a soft sigh, House wove his fingers into the younger man's hair. Though he would deny it later on, tears were pooling in his own translucent cerulean eyes. "I'm sorry, Wilson." Remorse audibly tainted his words.

Silently, Wilson lifted his head and repositioned himself directly on top of House, felt his muscles relax into the grooves of the older man's body. He pressed his mouth tenderly against House's. "I know."

And those two simple words were the last to be whispered for a long time.

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**So this has taken a bit of an angsty turn, eh? Not to worry, the next chapter shall be fluffy and mushy and lovey-dovey as ever. **

**Speaking of which... that little speech bubble isn't there to stare at. Or to provoke thoughts about cartoons. My everlasting love and my world-renowned cyberbrownies go out to any and all reviewers.**

**~JD**


	7. Utopia

***Bites nails*. This is my first time ever writing... smut. And I feel all tingly inside. **

**This isn't my favorite chapter so far, but it was light and fun and sexy. Or at least, I like to think so. With two incredibly attractive doctors in their birthday suits, how can one go wrong?**

* * *

Slumped across the couch, House mashed the power button on the remote control, and the television gave one final click and flash before turning off. His soap ended at seven, and all the pointless reality shows began soon after. Under normal circumstances, Wilson would already be home to entertain him, but the oncologist was staying late tonight, and the garage door had not yet sounded its grinding cue.

House drummed on his knees, glancing over at his guitar. He hadn't really ever been a performer, unless you counted the bemused hospital staff members who happened to glance into his office while he was riffing. But tonight, he wanted to play for Wilson. He would have done so last night, but he had been stuck at the hospital well into the small hours of the morning.

It hadn't been long since the bar incident. Wilson would know the exact number of days, hours even, but House wasn't that kind of guy.

Even several months into their relationship, House flat-out refused to set foot in a gay bar. He no longer thought of himself as "closeted", seeing as his colleagues were fully, though not explicitly, aware of his and Wilson's relationship. But he took steps to forbid this knowledge to spread any further. Not to his parents, not to Wilson's friends, and certainly not to the media. As well-known as House was in the medical field, it would be the biggest coming-out scoop since Dumbledore. Needless to say, he wasn't going to willingly publicize his sexuality.

Consequently, the two doctors spent a couple of inconspicuous hours in a run-of-the-mill bar to recognize their six-month anniversary. They planned to return home afterwards, of course, to spend the vast majority of the night celebrating in a far more private way. But it had never been about physical contact or lovey-dovey PDA for House and Wilson. Just to be together, just to talk about everything and nothing, was enough. Most of the time.

That being said, Wilson wasn't thinking very clearly after two blue-tinted, fruity-tasting drinks. He had absentmindedly closed his fingers over House's hand, giving his lover that deliciously adorable chocolate doe-eyed stare. And then they heard it.

"Wish all the fuckin' faggots would stay where they belong."

It had been a hiss from the man sitting behind Wilson, a not-so-subtle message that he drawled to the bartender, but was aimed elsewhere.

Any other time, House would've stood up and punched this bigot into the next decade. He glared briefly at the middle-aged, beer-chugging man before locking eyes with Wilson once more. The muscles in his chest tightened involuntarily.

Wilson had a look in his eyes that House immediately recognized. It was the expression Wilson bore whenever he delivered a terminal diagnosis to a child, or watched helplessly as an elderly patient died alone. And it shook House to the absolute core. _I hate the world we live in. This isn't fair._

In that moment, all House could think of doing, all he wanted to do, was to pull Wilson to his chest and hold him there until all his pain dissolved away. So he placed a rebellious hand on Wilson's shoulder, led him out of the bar, drove him home, and did just that.

Now, as House heard the rattle of keys and the creak of the door, he plucked his acoustic from its stand. A rare half-smile spread across his face as the younger doctor stepped through the doorway.

Wilson's "hello" froze on his tongue when he realized that House was cradling his guitar. He simply grinned and walked over to the couch, planting an affectionate kiss on House's lips. "You gonna play something for me, hotshot?" He was fully prepared for the inevitable mocking, cynical response.

House shifted and smiled wider. "Maybe."

Surprise flashed over Wilson's face. "R-really?" he stuttered.

"Depends. I don't perform for free."

Wilson raised a thick eyebrow and scooted closer to House, slipping his arm through House's elbow. "Oh, I see. You're looking for some sort of… compensation." He pressed a trail of tender kisses along House's neck.

"Hey, I wasn't gonna ask for my payment in advance," he told Wilson, who stilled for a moment. There was silence for a beat. "But I wouldn't turn it down," House whispered. He reached over to place his guitar back on its stand, then turned his head to capture Wilson's lips, beginning to feel himself stiffen. He wrapped his arms around Wilson's abdomen, and Wilson placed his own around House's neck in response.

After a few breathless kisses, Wilson pulled away and tugged House's tee-shirt over his head, then watched helplessly as the older man grabbed one side of his button-down shirt with each hand and pulled fiercely. Several buttons flew into the air, then bounced across the floor. "House!" he began to scold, but the object of his accusation was peeling the damaged shirt from his arms, then tossing it onto the coffee table.

"Shut up about your damn shirt," House whispered sexily. He cupped the back of Wilson's head in his hands and kissed him again, shoving his tongue into the younger man's mouth.

Wilson responded whole-heartedly and simultaneously groped for House's waistband. His fingers unfastened the button and the zipper on House's jeans, then moved to his own. He struggled for a moment with his belt buckle, then unzipped himself, relieving some of the pressure.

"In a rush to hear my song, are we now?" House inquired, his voice low and dripping with lust. He stood up, using the arm of the couch for support, then slid his jeans and his boxer shorts onto the ground.

Wilson got to his feet and did the same, admiring House's physique. Even for someone half his age, House had an incredible body. His arms were long and muscular, his chest firm, his abdomen toned and broad. "Yeah, your song. That's it," Wilson panted. He closed the distance between them and smashed his mouth into House's, pressing his body to the older man's.

After a minute or two, neither man could stand it any longer. Wilson placed his hands on House's shoulders and turned him around, then guided him back to the couch on his hands and knees. "You ready for me?"

House twisted his neck to look up at Wilson. "Always."

With that, Wilson sunk onto his knees on the couch behind House, then spit anxiously into his hands. The bottle of lube was tucked away in the bedroom, and there was no way he was going to wait any longer. Wilson slicked himself up unceremoniously and gripped House's abdomen on either side, then entered him with a passionate cry.

House echoed Wilson's cry twofold. He felt soft, slender fingers digging into his sides, heard Wilson's rhythmic panting, smelled that glorious tropical shampoo that he would never admit to liking. Even after hundreds of times, thousands of times, this could never get old.

"House…" Wilson groaned, his face collapsing to his lover's spine. His fingers stretched further, grasping House's ribcage, as he thrust and grinded and convulsed, enveloping the older man in the gaps and crevices of his front.

Closing his eyes tightly shut, House moved his hands to the arm of the couch and clutched it desperately. He moved in harmony with Wilson's body, meeting his every movement. It wasn't long before he felt himself get dangerously close, but he tried with all his might to hold off.

House's efforts paid off. He heard Wilson inhale sharply, felt him thrust one last time, and cried out in unison with his lover. Light flashed before his eyes for a blinding, brief, blissful moment. And then it was over.

Wilson waited for House to turn over and reposition himself, careful to avoid the sticky stain on the left-most cushion. They hadn't really thought that one out, Wilson supposed, but he wasn't particularly concerned as he collapsed into the older man's lap. He rested his forehead on House's collarbone for a few beats, panting euphorically, smiling into House's neck. "You're amazing, you know."

"You shouldn't say that," House whispered breathlessly. "It'll all go to my head one of these days."

Wilson sputtered with laughter. "Yeah. Wouldn't want you to develop a giant ego."

"God forbid."

With one last deep, audible sigh, Wilson thumped House's chest and sat up. "Okay. Your turn. Impress me."

Now it was House's turn to laugh. "You're kidding, right? That's it, Mr. Why-Don't-We-Ever-Cuddle-Afterwards?" He glared incredulously over at the oncologist.

Wilson ran a hand through his hair and smiled, bearing an undeniable resemblance to a kid in a candy shop. "That's _Doctor _Why-Don't-We-Ever-Cuddle-Afterwards to you, young man," he scolded. With the brief wag of a finger, he settled into the cushions and gestured for House to commence his performance.

Rolling his eyes dramatically, House reached over and plucked his acoustic gingerly from her stand, then rearranged it in his grasp. He strummed once, frowning, then adjusted one of the turning keys by what looked to Wilson like a tenth of a degree. "You're insane," Wilson chided, but House just ran the pads of his fingers across the strings once more and smiled.

Wilson smiled back at him. He crossed his hands in his lap and waited.

"_The world we live in isn't fair,_" House sang quietly, picking steadily at the strings. His voice was low and slightly gruff, and his ice-blue eyes were closed. "_There's crime and hatred everywhere."_

Wilson tilted his head back and bit his lower lip and watched House, completely enchanted.

"_I don't know how it got this way.__"_ House transitioned into a series of complex chords. His calloused fingers danced effortlessly across the fretboard, and he inhaled deeply, as if he was about to plunge into water. "_I'll just make sure that you're okay._"

From that moment on, Wilson couldn't concentrate properly. He seemingly bare body was enveloped in blissful, comforting warmth. Moments like this one came so rarely, moments when House willingly, openly, if not blatantly, declared his love and caring for the younger doctor. And said doctor couldn't imagine a feeling of greater ecstasy.

When House had strummed his final, plangent string, he remained stationary, eyes still closed. His fingers remained poised in midair, and his mouth was slightly open, as if he would continue with the press of a play/pause button.

Wilson didn't need to be asked twice, or even once for that matter. He slowly got to his feet, knelt down in front of House, placed a hand on each of the older man's knees, and kissed him. He felt House flinch in surprise, but they both gradually relaxed into each other. It was nothing like their hungry, wet kisses from before; this wasn't about sex, or lust, or impressing each other. It was just about them.

When Wilson pulled quietly away, his glimmering brown eyes met House's blue, translucent ones. He grinned, whispering but one word. "Encore."

* * *

**Yes, it was my first attempt at... **

**Let's just call it what it is: Pornography without the camera.**

**I feel so dirty now.**

**... Not really.**

**Anyways, REVIEW! I would love to know your thoughts about... whatever the hell that was.**

**~JD**


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